


We Were Always Meant to Say Goodbye

by grimeslincoln



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Character Death, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Sad Ending, read this if you enjoy suffering, this is nothing but sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-25 23:38:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14389503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimeslincoln/pseuds/grimeslincoln
Summary: Bucky feels the life leave Steve before he sees it.





	We Were Always Meant to Say Goodbye

Bucky feels the life leave Steve before he sees it.

He’s caught up amidst the fray of battle when it happens, enemies swarming at him like bees on the plains of Wakanda; blood is dripping from a gash in his eyebrow, narrowly missing his left eye and dripping a river of dirty red down the grazed and mud-stroked expanse of his cheek, where it clings to the hairs of his beard and dries.

He blocks a swipe from the claws of whatever these _creatures_ that they’re fighting are, retaliating with a blow from his metal arm, the prosthetic moving as a seamless extension of himself and sending his opponent hurtling back, where it collides with the dirt, forming a crater on impact.

Bucky clears a strand of hair from his vision with a flick of his head, using the back of his flesh hand to wipe beads of sweat from his hairline and taking the minute window of opportunity to slip his knife out of its sheath, flipping it expertly between his fingers, mostly out of habit, before lunging back in to the tide of oncoming Outriders.

Grabbing the closest creature to him, he wraps the cold metal of his fingers around it’s muscular neck, applying as much pressure as he possibly can until he can hear its trachea cracking beneath his fingertips; the thing struggles desperately in his grip, thrashing wildly as a choked roar of pain escapes its deformed mouth. Sensing another oncoming, Bucky adjusts his grip on the handle of his blade, and (keeping his other arm locked around his victim’s neck) shoots out his right limb, lodging the tip of his weapon in to the eye socket of the approaching enemy, stopping the misshapen body in its tracks, mere centimetres away.

Dislodging his knife from the alien’s skull, leaving the serrated edge coated in a thick black substance that he wipes clean on the padded material of his vest, Bucky finally releases his grip on the other creature, the mechanical joints of his knuckles whirring as they shift back in to place, and the _thing_ drops to a lifeless heap at his boots.

He is momentarily cast in shadow as Sam glides overhead, wings curling around himself as his whole body spins in mid-air, both feet colliding with an Outrider that Wanda had catapulted in to the sky, its body tangled in a web of scarlet, smoky vines, sending the thing flying.  

By the time Sam has taken out his target, Wanda has already decimated an entire wave of opponents, flinging out both of her arms as though to punch the air around her, releasing a sizzling eruption of magic that shatters the bones of any enemies within a twenty metre radius of her person, like chalk, but only tickles the skin of Bucky’s arm as it washes over him.

He continues working his way through the battalion, firing carefully aimed rounds of ammunition at the enemy, every single bullet landing perfectly on target, until his last remaining magazine is emptied in to the temple of one of Thanos’ pawns, allowing him to swing his rifle on to his back.

He pants breathlessly as the forces continue to bombard the Wakandan army; for every one of the Titan’s minions that they take down, they lose one of their own; the ground is littered with extraterrestrial and human corpses alike, a chaotic painting of spilled blood and broken bodies. However, the opposing forces appear to be unending, tides of them crashing down upon T’Challa’s dwindling forces again and again until Bucky can almost feel himself drowning.

Returning his knife to his grip, he slices through the jugulars of any creatures that get too close with the same ease as he would cut through paper, fountains of blood spraying from the wounds and spattering across his uniform; he stands amongst the carcasses, a stark, bloody image of simmering rage and calculation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Okoye, roughly two hundred feet away, battling two of Thanos’ forces with a practised ease and grace that makes her fighting style look as though she is dancing; a combination of intricate footwork and flowing, smooth movements. She slips her spear through the ribcage of one opponent, letting it collapse in to the dirt, before turning her full attention to the other attacker, this one slightly larger than the rest, leaving her locked in a struggle for the upper hand.

It’s only when Bucky spots the Outrider stalking its way towards the pre-occupied warrior that he begins to move; she can’t allow her focus to slip from her current enemy without being killed, but if she ignores the approaching threat, that will take her out instead.

He sprints towards her, the plates of his metal arm shifting with the movement, dodging effortlessly past a brawl between M’Baku and one of the enemy that interfers with his path, before quickly dropping to his knees and sliding on his shins across the ground, to avoid a low gliding War Machine. Leaning so far back on his heels that his hair brushes the ground underneath him, Rhodey’s armour comes centimetres from grazing his skyward-facing nose.

The colonel shouts out a hasty apology for the close-call that gets swallowed up by the din of the conflict, but the assassin is already launching himself back on to balls of his feet, focus settling back on Okoye, who is beginning to slow in her defence. Upon a split second of calculation, Bucky realises that he has no hopes of reaching the general before the alien is upon her, with the predator only seconds away from pouncing, black eyes, like pools of ink, focused unblinkingly on the Dora Milaje leader.

Bucky stills himself, twirling his blade between bionic fingers so that it is positioned to throw, and takes a deep breath through his nostrils, blocking out the background chaos of the battle until the screams of the dying and the grunts of exertion are nothing but white noise at the back of his mind, gaze locked on to his target with the unbreakable focus and unflinching precision that only a sniper could achieve.

The Outrider lifts one of its appendages, razor sharp talons curled in preparation to swipe Okoye from the land of the living, just as Bucky releases the knife from his hand, bicep plates rippling with tension and the seam of his shoulder, where cool metal meets dead flesh, protests from the amount of force being used in order to launch the weapon such a long distance.

The blade cuts through the air, narrowly missing Ayo’s ear (causing her to momentarily shift her attention to glare at Bucky over her shoulder) before effortlessly wedging itself in to the alien’s chest, piercing through the skin like butter and puncturing the thick muscle of its heart (or at least, where Bucky hoped it’s heart was located). The creature freezes where it is stood, dropping its arm from where it was being brought down to strike. A spluttering of black ichor dribbles from it’s open mouth and the thing crumbles in on itself, hitting the ground just as Okoye manages to gain the advantage in her one-to-one battle, sending the Outrider stumbling back with a kick to the abdomen and then using the opportunity to drive her spear through the underside of its jaw, pushing up through the protesting flesh and bone until the tip of her weapon protrudes from the top of its skull.

It falls next to Bucky’s victim and Okoye shakes the blood and bodily fluids from her spear, an affronted expression on her face as she assesses the state of her weapon, before turning, eyes searching for her ally amidst the mayhem. Her gaze lands on Bucky and she offers him a grateful nod, before immediately launching herself back in to the fight.

That’s when it happens. Bucky is slipping another knife out of his belt, spitting a gob of blood that had trickled in to his mouth, out on to the floor, when all of the air is suddenly ripped from his lungs, as though someone had just stuck a vacuum down his throat and sucked all of the oxygen from his body. Like a switch being flicked, his entire body grows cold, despite the scorching Wakandan sun beating down on him and everything is suddenly reduced down to the gaping space that has just been punched through his chest, as though part of himself has just been carved out; he feels so empty that it physically hurts, more so than any of the injuries he had sustained throughout the battle.

And he _knows_ what has just occurred, can feel it deep in his bones, the same way that he would feel it if it happened to him. How could he not? He’s always had a sixth sense when it comes to that scrawny little punk and getting himself in trouble; no matter how much distance there was between them, he had always known when the smaller man had needed him, and he had always been able to find him, as though they were magnetized.

But _this_? This is different. This isn’t the sneaking suspicion in the back of his head or the goosebumps on his forearms that used to lead him down back alleys and in to parking lots to discover split lips and bruised ribs. This is emptiness.

“ _Steve_.” The name escapes his lips in a desperate whisper, like a prayer to whatever the hell is looking over them right now for this not to be happening. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Bucky pulls himself out of the frozen moment he had found himself in, panic bubbling in his chest, threatening to spill out of him at any given moment, as he scans the ocean of bodies, urgently trying to spot the only person that matters in the pandemonium.

He doesn’t know how, whether it’s coincidence or luck or the same divine intervention that has been leading him back to Steve Rogers his entire life, through war and death and decades of time, but suddenly, there he is.

There’s a momentary gap in the brawling that allows Bucky to locate him, zeroing in on his figure as though he’s the only other person stood on the battlefield. The breath catches in his throat, and for a second he thinks one of the Outriders might have just come up from behind and plunged their hand between his ribcage, because it feels like his heart is being pulled out of his chest.

Steve is stood a football field away, in the thick of the action (because _of course_ he is), and he’s bloody and bruised like everybody else, his lip is cut and there’s a gash on his forehead that has already started to clot, and he’s got that defiant look on his face that he always does, because the idea of surrender is never an option for Steve Rogers, not even before, when he couldn’t walk without his bones rattling or laugh without coughing or ruffle Bucky’s hair without stretching on to his tip-toes to reach.

For a split second, Bucky thinks that he’s got it wrong; that Steve is perfectly fine except for some minor cuts and scrapes and that before Bucky knows it, he’ll be watching the other man dive back in to the action, despite how much he just wants to drag him from the conflict and shut him away from the danger. He thinks he’s got it wrong.

But then the colour drains from Steve’s face, like watercolour dripping down a page, and both of his hands are pawing at his abdomen, and even from such a distance, Bucky can see the deep red current of blood that is gushing through his fingertips and drenching his suit until navy is transformed to black from the liquid.

And despite the fact that Bucky has stopped breathing, and his entire world has just stopped spinning on it’s axis, the battle continues to rage on around him and he wants to scream at the rest of the team because Steve is _dying_ and nobody has even noticed.

“STEVE!”

The shout escapes him before he even realises, so loud and full of raw desperation that the veins in his neck push against his skin and the inside of his throat scratches in pain. He doesn’t know whether he just shouted so loud that Steve managed to hear him, or of it’s that sixth sense that they both seem to have for each other, but suddenly Steve’s head has snapped up and his eyes are locked with Bucky’s across the three hundred foot, raging battlefield that stretches between them.

Steve’s expression, which had initially been morphed out of shock and fear, immediately softens in to something affectionate and loving when his eyes settle on Bucky, despite the dire circumstances, and _God_ if that didn’t break his heart even more.

Before he can think of what to do, Steve’s knees are buckling beneath him and Bucky is helpless to do anything other than watch as the super soldier collapses in to the dirt.

Without thinking, not taking so much as a second to hesitate, Bucky is charging across the grassy plains, making a bee line directly for Steve, as though he’s being reeled towards him by some invisible string, without any conscious thought of his own. It isn’t a decision that has to be made; running to Steve has always been instinct; like an automatic reflex that requires no thought process.

Either the rest of the team heard Bucky’s urgent cry of saw their comrade go down, because suddenly Wanda is levitating in the sky, branches of red magic dripping from her fingertips and picking up any Outriders that are obstructing Bucky’s way, in order to clear a path straight to Steve. She lifts the extraterrestrial’s with the same ease as a child picking up an insect, catapulting them through the air and releasing her hold on them halfway, so that they collide with the ground at full force, forming depressions in the mud upon impact.

Sam is gliding overhead, yet even his wings can’t carry him faster than Bucky; not when he’s trying to get to the only person in the world who matters to him, who happens to be bleeding out. Sam doubts a double decker running in to Bucky at full speed could prevent him from getting to Steve.

Natasha, who had been in the closest proximity to the Captain when he went down, was fending off any opponents on the ground whilst Sam attempted to pick them off from above, creating a protective perimeter around Steve.

Time slows as Bucky sprints towards the body of his best friend, as though he was stuck in one of those nightmares where no matter how much you run, you don’t get any further, with each second dragging in to the next as though hours were stretching past.

He’s sprinting so fast that he can hardly breathe, charging forwards despite the obstructions and forcing Wanda to scramble to clear his way, instead of following a set trail that she creates for him. His lungs are wheezing for breath and his legs are burning to the point of agony but he doesn’t even notice as he finally reaches the clearing that the team have formed around Cap, after what felt like the most painstaking seconds of his life.

Over the comms, he faintly hears Bruce announcing that they’ve managed to close the portal Thanos’ was using to transport his troops in to Wakanda, so this wave of his creatures would be the last. He’s unsure if anybody responds to the news; everything else is background noise compared to what’s in front of him.

Bucky chokes on a sob as his gaze settles on Steve; the younger man is sprawled on his back, his hands clutched desperately over the large gash that stretches practically from one side of his stomach to the other, but his efforts are doing nothing to stop the blood that is pouring out like water from a broken dam, forming puddles beneath him and staining the ground a rich maroon shade. His face is devoid of colour and for a moment Bucky thinks he’s already gone, until he spots the miniscule rise in his chest, and as if sensing his presence, Steve finds the strength to turn his head, to look up hopefully at his friend.

“Buck…” Steve croaks out, voice dry and so weak that he might as well be miming and Bucky fucking hates himself for the tiny flicker of warmth that flutters in his chest when Steve looks up at him, the blonde even managing to quirk his lips up in his best attempt as a smile, despite his dire condition.

Bucky stumbles forwards, his body practically losing all ability to function at the sight of Steve lying beaten and bloody in the dirt. Slumping to his knees next to the broken figure, he lifts Steve’s head in to his lap with trembling fingers, using a level of care that he hadn't known he still possessed, instinctively curling his fingers to stroke the blonde hair at the nape of his neck.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps out, flattening his vibranium hand against the laceration that has almost torn Steve in half, applying as much pressure as he dares without opening it up further. The skin around the opening is mangled and smeared with red, and the blood is seeping out between Bucky's fingers, crawling in between the joints of the digits and crusting around the metal. No matter how much he attempts to stop the haemorrhaging, palm sliding desperately against the wet expanse of injured flesh, the fluid continues bubbling to the surface, Bucky's efforts achieving no more than as if he was using a plaster to patch up a hole in a boat. 

"Buck," Steve manages to croak out, eyes tinted with sadness as he observes his friend's futile attempts to save him. He can already feel his heartbeat slowing in his own chest and with every second that passes sucking in oxygen becomes more and more arduous. He knows the inevitable outcome of this situation and he  _needs_ Bucky to stop and listen to him while he still has the energy to speak. 

But the other man is still frantically pressing at his stomach, and Steve has never seen such fierce determination mixed with fear, painted so clearly over his friend's face.  A sob rips from Bucky's throat, interrupting the continuous chant of prayers and profanities that he has been reciting under his breath, and the tears that have been steadily cascading down his cheeks begin to mingle with the patches of blood clinging to his skin, causing diluted, blush tinted droplets to rain down on Steve's uniform. 

Steve can count the number of times he has seen Bucky cry on one hand, and every time it has torn out a piece of his soul like it is doing so now; the first had been when they were kids, Bucky still small enough that Steve could stroke his cheek without stretching up, after the Barnes' family cat had passed away. The second had been after Bucky came out to him, at eighteen years old. He had sat Steve down on the worn, old sofa that occupied their shared apartment, unable to look him in the eyes and a stoney expression on his face as he confessed to his best friend that he liked men in the way he was supposed to like women, and that he didn't care if Steve detested him; he couldn't live with keeping a secret from him. It wasn't until Steve had placed a tentative hand on the older man's shoulder and reassured him that nothing in the world would ever make him hate him ( _Hell,_ he had confessed,  _I like boys just the same as I like dames)_ , that Bucky had released the breath he had been holding in and started sobbing with relief in to the crook of Steve's neck. The last time had been after the events with Tony in Siberia, after Steve led him broken, both physically and emotionally, back to the quinjet, the former assassin muttering the names of all those whose lives he had taken, with silent tears slipping from his eyes, until Steve wrapped him up in his arms and countered his recital of the dead with words of love and reassurance. 

But there on the battlefield of Wakanda, the sound of war exploding around them and the hot African sun beginning to set on the horizon, is the worst, because this time Steve knows there is nothing he can do to ease the sorrow of the man he loves. And the realisation that he can't spare Bucky from the pain to come hurts more than dying. 

"Hey, Buck, it's okay. It's going to be okay," he attempts again, this time mustering all the strength he has left to reach up his arm and stroke his fingertips gently down the side of the other man's face, one of his tears latching itself on to Steve's finger and running a wet trail down to his wrist. 

The touch of Steve's skin against his own snaps Bucky to attention, and he reflexively curls his flesh palm around Steve's hand, holding it tighter to his cheek as though using the contact to anchor himself, ignoring the way that the blood that coats both of their palms sticks their skin together. 

"I told you to stay safe, dumbass," Bucky chokes out, the same scolding line that Steve has heard leave his lips a thousand times over, repeated again and again every time he returned home having picked a fight with someone ten times his size. But this time, instead of the usual resigned acceptance and light teasing, Bucky's tone is laced with despair. 

"Since when have I ever listen to a thing you've told me?" Steve tries to huff out a laugh, a fruitless attempt to pretend that they're back in a time where bantering with Bucky came as easy as breathing, instead of lying in the midst of an alien invasion, because _God_ , maybe dying wouldn't feel that bad if he could just see Bucky smile at him one more time. But instead, his laugh comes out as a gargled cough and his mouth is overpowered by a metallic tang as blood forces its way up his throat and spills out from between his lips. 

Bucky lets out a strangled cry at the sight, but he must understand the pleading look in Steve's eyes, begging him to just indulge his desire to pretend that they're not where they are, because he doesn't start trying to stop the bleeding again. Instead he complies. 

"You're a punk, you know that?" he attempts to lift the corner of his lips in a smirk, but instead his expression just contorts in to something pained. 

"Jerk." Steve can't manage a smile anymore but he hopes the affection is clear in his gaze.

A ripple of energy behind him distracts Bucky's attention and he turns his head to find that in a fit of emotion, Wanda has managed to obliterate the majority of the remaining Outriders, the remnants of her magic swirling up in to the sky and leaving the creatures writhing in the dirt. The few aliens left are being taken care of by Rhodey and Hulk, who charges through them, ripping bodies in half like rag dolls, and the rest of the Wakandan forces. 

Sam, Natasha, Wanda and T'Challa are all standing a few feet away, close enough to hear the words being exchanged but respectful enough to pretend that they can't. Sam is staring in shock, as though Steve dying is something that he barely even thought possible, let alone something that would actually happen, whilst Natasha has her arms wrapped protectively around herself as though to stop from shaking, more emotion on her face than Bucky had ever seen from her, as discreet tears slip from her eyes.

When Bucky lowers his gaze back down to Steve, the wounded man's expression has slackened and his eyed are beginning to droop shut, his lids growing heavier and heavier until he can barely keep them open and his bloodied hand has dropped from Bucky's face, leaving a violent streak of crimson along the cheekbone.   

Panic surges in Bucky's chest then, because every single cell in his body is urging him to save Steve like a survival instinct, the same way that his automatic response when drowning would be to gasp for air, but he  _can't_. All he can do is sit there and fucking watch the life seep out of him. This isn't supposed to happen; Bucky is _supposed_ to have Steve's back, he's _meant_  to take out the opponents that Steve can't defeat himself, to pick him up when he falls down and take him home to clean up his scratches and stitch his broken skin back together. He's  _supposed_ to be there to make Steve laugh when he's hurting and make him soup when he's sick and wrap around him at night when he needs a reminder that somebody is there. 

Bucky was built to be there for Steve.

"Steve? Hey, Stevie, open your eyes!" he practically begs, using both hands to thumb at the soft expanse of the younger man's cheeks, cradling his skull as if it were the most precious thing on Earth."Open your eyes for me, Stevie! Don't you dare fucking die on me, you hear me?" 

Bucky's entire body heaves viciously as a harsh sob racks through him and his body practically collapses in on itself, like a fragile house of cards when confronted by a gust of wind. His forehead falls to rest against Steve's, hot tears spilling down on to the other man's pale countenance, and for a second he can almost imagine that they're back in Brooklyn before the war, curled towards each other in Bucky's rickety single bed that Steve slept in more than his own, foreheads touching, one small, shaky hand intertwined with a larger, steady one as they laughed in the darkness at their stupid jokes and fell asleep folded together. Except now, Steve's skin is growing cold against Bucky's and the breath blowing out of his nostrils is weak and strained, instead of warm and full of life.

On the edge of his peripheral vision, Bucky sees Natasha make a move towards him, hand outstretched as though to grab his shoulder. His first thought is that they're going to try and drag him away from Steve, and a concoction of fear and hysteria ignites within him, causing him to whip his head around, freezing the Widow in her tracks with an ice cold glare. Steve was still alive, and he needed him; as long as there was blood in his veins and air in his lungs, Bucky would take on anyone who tried to rip him away from the only person in the world who mattered to him. 

But her demeanour is merely one of pity and sorrow, seeking to provide comfort instead of to cause distress, and Bucky's face relaxes slightly. He glances around at the rest of the team who are all just  _standing_ there, watching, as if Bucky's entire world isn't slipping through his fingers like water, right in front of their faces. 

"Fucking do something!" he screams at them, voice scratching against his throat. He means for the words to come out demanding and harsh but instead he just sounds broken and desperate, even to his own ears. His attention shifts to T'Challa, who is stood with a mournful look on his face, grieving both for his own people and the loss that is still inevitably yet to come; "You have to save him! I'm begging you, just help him.  _Please._ " 

He knows, deep down, that it's too late; from the second Steve was hit, the severity of the wound meant that any attempts to save his life would be unsuccessful, and especially now, when his heartbeat is so feeble that his chest is barely rising, but still, it shatters every single piece of Bucky's heart that was still somehow intact when the King shakes his head. 

He's ready to start yelling at them, to demand that they do  _something,_ when Steve shifts almost imperceptibly in his lap. and when Bucky looks down, the blonde's eyes have fluttered ever-so-slightly open and are gazing back up at him, a mixture of fondness and adoration that is so undeniably familiar that Bucky can't help but cry harder. 

"It's okay," Steve rasps and Bucky is surprised that he can still speak. Bucky moves his hand to run his fingers through Steve's hair, doing his best to ignore the dried blood that has matted the strands together, aware that Steve has always found the gesture soothing. 

"How is this okay? None of this is okay, Stevie, this isn't meant to happen! Not to you!" 

"Because-" Steve coughs, blood spluttering from his mouth and dribbling down his chin, "you're here. That's all that matters." He does his best to suck some air in to his lungs before continuing, long eyelashes fluttering tiredly. "I'm glad-" another gasp for air, "that after everything, you're here at the end." 

Bucky shakes his head vigorously, a sweaty strand of hair falling in front of his face, as if denying what is happening will make it so that it isn't real. His vision is blurry with tears that won't stop coming, his nose is running, and his body is trembling so much that he has to grit his teeth in order to keep himself under control. 

"Don't say that!" his tone is laced with frustration, because Steve has always been the one who never gives up, refuses to stay down; defeat is not in his nature. And the resigned acceptance with which Steve is talking, something so new and unnatural coming from the super soldier's mouth, scares Bucky more than anything else. "Don't fuckin' say that. You still gotta tell me about all the cool stuff I missed out on, and show me that stupid art gallery you won't stop going on about. And who else is gonna understand all my stupid jokes and make me those eggs like your ma used t' do? This isn't the end. Me and you; we don't end Stevie." 

Steve stares back at Bucky, looking more pitiful than any dying man has the right too, tears slipping from his eyes and rolling sideways down to his ears. A pained gasp emits from him and whether it's from the realisation of everything life still has to offer him or the agony from his wound, Bucky is unsure. 

"We always did say, 'til the end of the line," Steve smiles, but the action is bittersweet and tinged with nostalgia. Bucky feels any strength he had left within himself crumble at Steve repeating his own words back to him; this isn't what he  _meant_. 

He opens his mouth to protest but Steve cuts him off - the soldier doesn't have the time left to argue, and even if he did, there are things that need to be said.

"Please Buck-" Steve's heart misses a beat, "I know this is hard. But you have..." he closes his eyes, sucking in as much air as he can because he  _has_ to do this, before opening them again, "you have to try and let yourself be happy. For me," Steve struggles to lift one of his hands, ignoring the tremors that run through it, to press it to Bucky's cheek, taking this last opportunity to relish the way that the older man leans in to the contact, "for yourself. You deserve it." 

"How can I?" Bucky almost chokes on his words, swallowing around the bile rising in his throat and trying to focus around the rivulets of tears that are practically drowning him. "How can I be happy without you?" 

Steve blinks woefully up at him, because how is he supposed to answer that? 

Taking his last chance for a moment of contentment, Steve focuses on the way that Bucky's fingers stroke across scalp, memory flickering back to the way the older man used to repeat the action over and over again whenever Steve was shaking from hypothermia or worked up over some scumbag or sobbing so hard that he couldn't breathe, like the night that his mother died and Bucky had cradled him for hours on the living room floor, whispering words of reassurance in to his ear until he finally slipped in to a fitful sleep. 

He ignores the stench of death and decay around them, and instead breathes in the scent that is so unmistakably  _James Barnes_ ; sweat and gunpowder combined with soap and the same brand of aftershave he had been using ever since he was fifteen and had saved up enough from his paper round to buy himself a bottle. If he has to die anywhere, he muses, he can't think of anywhere better than with Bucky's fingers carding through his hair, those familiar steel blue eyes staring back in to his, as though they're the only thing in the universe.

Steve moves his thumb a fraction, caressing it along the stubble of the older man's cheek; the skin is rougher and more marred than it used to be, but still the same, and he savours the warm presence of Bucky beneath his hand; something that, at one point, he never though he would get to feel again. 

It's as he's lying there, drinking every detail of the other man in that he possibly can, that Steve's heart stutters in his chest, beating so slow that he can no longer even feel it, and his throat constricts around his next breath, darkness blurring at the edges of his vision. He can sense himself slipping; can practically feel the last remnants of life trickling out of his body.

Bucky notices his shift in condition, fingers stilling in his hair, and if Steve's heart wasn't already slowing, the expression of pure heartbreak on Bucky's face would stop it dead in his chest. 

" _Steve?"_ Bucky breathes out, tone laced with unadulterated terror. 

The battlefield has grown still around them; all movement ceasing and the entire world has grown so quiet that Bucky swears he can hear the receding pulse of the man in his arms. Sam has turned away, too grief stricken and the exchange in front of him too personal, for him to watch, whilst Wanda muffles her sobs with her fist and Natasha looks on, gaze never once moving from Steve, still and stoic despite the teardrops tracing the side of her nose. 

Steve makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, desperate to push these last words out, and opens his mouth, finally letting the truth that he's been holding in for the last eighty years spill out; "I love you so much, Buck. So much, always have." 

And if he had one regret as he lay there, it was that he hadn't said those words decades ago, because it's the truest thing he has ever spoken; he's loved James Buchanan Barnes since the second he set eyes on him. He loved him before the war, when they lived off of food stamps and spent their Sunday's sitting in the park so that Steve could sketch the curves of the brunette's face. He loved him during the war, when they shared a tent and said teary goodbyes every time one of them were sent on separate missions and he had loved him when he had stared back at him with unrecognising eyes and looked at him and only saw a target.  

Any slither of composure that Bucky is holding on to deteriorates at the confession, a shattered sob tearing its way out of his chest as he slides both of his hands to cup Steve's pallid face and leans down to desperately press their mouths together.

The other man's lips are cracked and cold beneath his, but in that moment, nothing had ever felt as  _right_. Bucky pours every emotion that he can possibly muster in to the kiss, trying to convey almost a decades worth of love and adoration, that was impossible to put in to words, in to the action. 

The bitter taste of blood is overwhelming but Bucky ignores it in order to focus on the fact that he is  _kissing_ Steve; the man that he has loved ever since he was thirteen and saw a scrawny, stubborn-faced kid standing up the a group of bullies double his size. This could be, he thinks, the best moment of his entire life, if it weren't for the nagging voice in the back of his that reminded him this was both the first and last time he would ever get to taste Steve Roger's mouth against his.

"I love you," he gasps against Steve's mouth, both of their tears melding together, repeating the words over and over and over like a sacred prayer, "I love you, I love you so much, I love you." 

Steve uses his last slither of energy to smile in to the kiss, retuning the smallest amount of pressure. Bucky lets out an anguished cry as he feels Steve exhale one last shaky breath against his lips, before his entire body goes limp in his arms and his eyelids droop closed.

And just like that, he is gone, taking half of Bucky's soul with him.


End file.
